"we get all sorts around here."

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Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

The only thing left to deal with after John's typed out the emails is Andrew West's murder.

Not for Mycroft because John doesn't have enough time left to be afraid. Even Big Brother needs some prep time after all. He's not even doing this for Sherlock. He's doing this because Andrew 'Westie' Westwood was a decent, loyal bloke and John might be able to help clear his name. There's a window of opportunity that is begging to slam shut and John sits on the couch as his laptop goes into standby and the skull sings 'Waltzing Matilda' like it's forgotten he can hear it. It's discordant, off-tempo and frankly, bloody pathetic.

John doesn't mention the singing; at least it drowns out the tick-tock of the clock running down. John has the mean little thought that the skull clearly learnt music from Sherlock's violin playing which is unfair. Sherlock can play and play beautifully. He just never does.

Perverse bloody wanker, John thinks affectionately as he shrugs into his coat and goes to bully the Transport Police into letting him view the crime scene. He's lucky and Hugh, the rail inspector who lets him onto the line, rants about suicides being selfish (not properly angry but when he was eighteen and his da and he were fighting every night and one night he looked at the trains flying past at the bottom of the hill and saw a way out that no-one could take from him). John ignores Hugh until he goes away and John fishes out his notebook and starts slowly trying to think his way through the crime.

Finally, John gets it, sees the whole bloody shape of it in one glorious moment...and Sherlock is there. The bloody great ponce has already solved it, of course and John feels just a little bitter. Then Sherlock is off and flying and John is sucked into his wake and they're hurrying down the road as Sherlock rattles off the whole thing in a breathless monologue. John interrupts once or twice and he only notices when Sherlock bounds up the stairs that he's been marching down the street.

John's already sinking into the cool battle-ready detachment of the trained soldier when Sherlock levers the door open and a tidal-wave of emotions and images come gushing out. They're incredible potent, like the whole flat has been hermetically sealed since West came charging through the door.

"Jesus," John breathes (So much anger/pain/betrayal-God, what will Liz think? Brother-friend—I TRUSTED YOU!) Sherlock sweeps into the flat ahead of him and John fumbles for the right questions. (Shame-pain-FEAR, can't find the words, can't stand the way you look at me, don't. Look. at. Me. Like. That.) and Sherlock's peering at a bloodstain on the windowsill.

They're interrupted by the rattle of keys in the door. He draws his gun without thinking, without hesitating as Raymond West's dying thoughts loop endlessly in the back of his mind and John could shoot this man, right now and never feel guilty. But that's West's thinking, his emotions and John pushes them away and he stands back and lets Sherlock flay the truth from this snivelling wreck of a man.

Sherlock whisks him away and John marches the whole way back to Baker Street with his back straight and his eyes forward while Sherlock watches and taps away on his mobile. It takes hours and a piping hot curry to purge West's memories but John is able to watch Sherlock, still bundled up in his coat and scarf yell at the TV and smile when he jokes about Connie Prince. It's domestic, pedestrian and...nice. John plays around on his computer, draws the moment out as long as he can. He looks at Sherlock, at the flat and thinks I was happy here and he smiles at Sherlock before he leaves for a fictitious date with Sarah (who's safely on a date with Tim from the x-ray clinic and it would have been nice if he could have said goodbye but she's safe and that's good enough)

Halfway down the street, he stops; just a split second before the gun comes to rest against the back of his neck. He looks up at the smirking, horribly familiar figure in front of him, All around them, the CCTV cameras are dark and dead. John breathes out, even and calm.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

Loving this! Got it bookmarked and check back every day for some more. Now I'm just hoping that John gets to be more awesome 'cause of his gift - not that he isn't already, but Sherlock always seems to get there first. Dammit Sherlock, you're wonderful but sometimes infuriating!

(And whoops, clicked the wrong post comment button and posted this to the prompt. Never mind!)

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

yes, yes, yes-- john is lining up the strands and taking action and initiative. i enjoyed his moment of appreciation at the flat, but am nervous about the certainty of his finality. can't wait for more, thanks for writing.

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

John is such a hero in this story. Not in the bamf sort of way you sometimes see, but in the determinedly doing what needs to be done no matter how much he'd rather not sort of way. Which I think is really more heroic than just being a tough guy.

This bit broke my heart: It's domestic, pedestrian and...nice. John plays around on his computer, draws the moment out as long as he can. He looks at Sherlock, at the flat and thinks I was happy here and he smiles at Sherlock

Re: Shadows on the Wall 18(/20?)

While I think John is capable of being the action hero when the situation calls for it, my personal interpretation is that his heroism is solidly rooted in being the man who does what is necessary, no matter what.

Shadows on the Wall 19(/23)

John gets bundled into the back of a white van with four big brutes (the Ukrainian minders that got the Golem out of the Vauxhall Arches, they're all carrying guns and they're loyal to Moriarty because they're out of other options – there are six figure bounties on each of them in the Baltic).

"John, John, John," Moriarty – because it is Moriarty, the last lingering traces of 'Jim the gay computer techie' were discarded as soon as he was sure John understood - has his hands clasped in front of him and he's smiling. "How nice to see you!"

John licks his lips and says nothing. His heart is racing and the tick-tick-tick of the clock is getting louder every second. He's keeping his breathing even with an effort; it's like the first time parachuting into a hot spot all over again. He knows he's done (almost) everything he could, taken every reasonable precaution but now he's in free-fall and the only thing he can do is hope he's done enough.

"You're being very quiet, Johnny-boy," Moriarty's tone is darker. He's still gleefully playing the supercilious little bastard but John recognises the tell-tale signs of a genius feeling under-appreciated. "I thought you'd have more questions."

"Oh very good, John," Moriarty claps slowly, dark eyes contemptuous and his smile showing too many teeth. "It's like seeing a dog who's learnt a trick. Adorable but really, it's rather pathetic to watch. Do you know what happens now, Johnny?"

"Fifth pip," John says automatically and Moriarty looks at him sharply.

Fuck, John clearly wasn't meant to guess that. John stares back, stomach clenching as Moriarty regards him and he has to dig his fingers into his leg where Moriarty can't see to keep his expression from giving the game away. Moriarty giggles.

"Oh, well done, Johnny," he pats John's head like John really is a dog and John has to dig his fingers in harder. "Did it hurt, thinking that hard? Or is dear Sherlock rubbing off on you?"

His fingers brush the side of John's head as he pulls his hands back and John gags on a sudden surge of bile. (so much he wants from Sherlock, his attention, his focus, his brilliance, his mind, his long pale legs spread wide, his pleas, his tears, his soul...) John wrenches away from the sickening images and swallows hard.

"Not getting sick, are you, Johnny?" Moriarty coos and John nearly is sick this time. He can't feel the future shifting before him anymore; it's gone. John's rigid expression makes Moriarty smile, cruel and exultant and he has to work very hard not to throw up for real.

As Moriarty starts to laugh, John feels the gaping hole of uncertainty open around him. Has he just been mad all this time? No, there's the Golem but-but Lestrade could have gotten information from anywhere! He could have just stumbled across the Golem. John's delusions aren't proof of anything. Oh God, what sort of damage has he done?

He's in shock, John thinks, as Moriarty's thugs drag him out and strip away his own jacket. He doesn't fight when the nervous kid who reminds him of Molly straps on the vest. It's Semtex or something close to it and John inhales the familiar reek of explosive. He can't even begin to calculate how much damage this will do.

"Sherlock's invited us for a swim," Moriarty purrs in John's ear. He's crowding into John's personal space, has been since John got strapped into the vest and he fluffs John's hood and checks the earpiece is in place. "Such a good idea. Do I need to remind you of the rules, Johnny?"

"No," John rasps. "I know this one."

"So biddable," Moriarty smirks, thumb rubbing along John's ear as the snipers take up their positions. "I can almost see what he sees in you."

Moriarty's phone rings and he puts it to his ear. The slow smile that spreads across his face tells John all he needs to know; Sherlock's here.

"Time to dance, Johnny-boy," Moriarty pushes him back into the cubicle. John doesn't resist, hyper aware of the weight of the bomb. Moriarty checks the earpiece is securely tucked into John's collar before he closes the door, leaving John alone with his fears.